The Deepest Waters, A Novel (4 page)

Up then down, up then down. The movement unending.

The heat scorched his neck and arms. And the thirst.
But don’t drink. No matter how intense the thirst . . . don’t drink
.

“I can’t hold on, John. It’s time.”

“No,” John said. “Robert, don’t. Just a little more.”

“Why? There’s no point. I’m so tired.”

“Can’t you feel it, Robert? The waves are calming.”

“Does it matter?”

“It will get easier to hold on. We can just float. Just a little longer, Robert. Think of Mary and your little ones. Hold on for them.” John looked to his right. Robert’s head faced away. He gave no reply. They had been sharing one of the wooden tables John had pulled from the dining saloon. “Robert?”

“A little longer then,” Robert said.

For the last several hours John had watched as one man after another gave up and slipped beneath the water, like the man who’d shared this table with Robert. Some had announced their departures, calling out their names, a few last words to convey to loved ones should any out here survive. Others just silently disappeared. There were less than a hundred men floating in their group. All the rest were dead.

The big raft . . . there had been three men on it. Now there was only one
. John quickly looked around, didn’t see anyone swimming toward it. “Robert? Hey, Robert.” John splashed him.

“What?”

“C’mon, the big raft.”

“What?”

“There’s room, enough for both of us.”

“I don’t have the strength to move.”

“It’s not far, maybe a hundred feet. If I can get us there, will you hold on?”

“I suppose.”

The big raft . . . what he and Robert had named a pair of doors and hatches some men had tied together right after the ship sank. They had been eyeing it for hours. Well, John had; Robert had given up. It seemed big enough to hold four men, but John had only ever seen three. Two of them had been defending it savagely, kicking and punching anyone who came near. As the afternoon wore on and the sun had sapped everyone’s energy, the battles had ceased. The two warriors on the raft had finally lost the will to fight.

Sometime in the last hour they had, apparently, lost the will to live.

“We’re almost there,” John said. “It’s big enough for you to lay there a while and rest.”

John felt Robert’s legs start to kick beside him. He was still trying. John kept his focus on the prize as they closed the distance. It was too discouraging to lock eyes with anyone on his right or left as he went by. Such desperation and pleading on every face. But he couldn’t help them, not anymore. He was spent.

The men were already in a state of exhaustion when they’d first entered the water, from days on the bucket brigade. Adding to that, for John, was the mental fatigue from constantly resisting terrifying thoughts that pounded relentlessly in his mind. Then the energy expended conjuring hopeful thoughts, which he didn’t even believe.

For the moment, John’s thoughts were few. The big raft alone consumed him. And how improved their situation would be if they could cling to it instead of this table.

After John pulled himself onto the raft, he reached back for Robert. He was gone. “No,” he shouted, looking all around the table for him. “Robert,” he shouted. He must have gone under.

John was just about to dive beneath the table when he heard, “I’ve got him, John.”

He recognized the voice, the man’s accent.

“Mr. Ambassador?”

“He’s over here,” the man said. “The other side of the raft. I’ve got his collar, but I’m too weak to pull him up by myself. And please don’t call me that, John. After all we’ve been through.”

“Yes, sir,” John said. “Ramón . . . sir.” Ramón Gutierrez, the Peruvian ambassador. The man who’d stood beside him on the bucket brigade. “I’m glad you’re still here.”

“As am I. For how long, who knows?”

John edged his way to the far side of the raft, and together they pulled Robert aboard. He didn’t look well.

“I’m so thirsty, John,” he said weakly. “I drank some seawater, I think.”

“How much, Robert?”

“Just a little . . . but it didn’t help.”

“It won’t help, Robert. And it will make you sick, or worse.”

“He’s right, Robert,” said Ramón. “The man whose spot you’re taking on this raft tried quenching his thirst from the ocean.”

Robert rolled over and threw up. Thankfully, just water. John quickly splashed it away. “That’s good, Robert. You’ll be fine.”

Robert lay there on his side. “I’m so thirsty.”

“We all are,” John said, patting Robert on the shoulder.

John leaned over Robert and whispered to Ramón, “The other two men, before they disappeared, I saw them beating anyone who came near.”

Ramón whispered back, “They had no wives aboard the
Vandervere
, so all their gold went down with the ship. I promised them each a thousand gold coins if they helped me survive.” He smiled.

Instantly, John remembered the pouch of gold he’d given Laura. And the note. What was his beloved doing now, he wondered. Well on her way to New York and safety. He was glad of that but immediately stopped dwelling on what she might face once she arrived.

“Look,” said Ramón. “To the west, a storm building on the horizon.” Everyone within earshot turned and stared. “It appears to be coming this way.”

No one said a word. Everyone was likely thinking the same thing—fresh water. If the storm was mild, that is. But then another thought . . . more deaths if it stirred up the wind and waves again. Even John doubted he could hold on through another round of that.

“You can see the end of it,” someone said. “On both sides.”

“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” said another. “I must have water.”

They watched as it moved slowly toward them.

Suddenly a flash. “Was that . . . ?”

“Yes,” said Ramón, “it was.”

Lightning.

As Captain Meade had predicted, the winds had stayed firm all day, filling the sails of the
Cutlass
and drying out the dampness in Laura’s clothes. Except for her undergarments, she felt completely dry. But the chafing on her skin caused her considerable pain. Walking was an especially painful task. She hadn’t seen Micah since the terrible beating he’d received an hour ago. She went below deck to see how he fared.

She found him folding the cut sails he’d passed out the night before, facing away from her. Crabby sat dutifully by his side, admiring every move he made. Micah bent down to pick up another, patted her head, and said, “That’s my girl.” Her tail instantly responded.

“Micah,” Laura said. “Are you all right?” Crabby turned and ran toward her. Laura bent down to greet her.

Micah turned also, much slower. Laura’s heart fell as she saw the swelling on his face, especially around his eyes and mouth. She noticed him blinking back tears.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, seeing she noticed.

“Don’t be,” Laura said. “I couldn’t believe how that man treated you.”

Micah gently shook his head. “That not be the reason for these tears. I just been here thankin’ the Lord, is all. How he been so good to me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I thought she be gone for sure.” He looked at Crabby. “Didn’t think I’d get to Missuh Maul in time. Then I’d be all alone. But the good Lord spare her, and me too.”

“Aren’t you upset? That man beat you so badly.”

“I been beat worse, more times than I know, with nothin’ to show for it. I’d take five more like it to save her, she been so good to me.”

Laura couldn’t believe what she heard. How does someone experience what he just did and within an hour find any good in it, let alone enough to shed tears of joy? She wanted to understand more about this unusual man. She had never spoken to a slave before.

“Well, I’m glad you’re all right,” she said. “And Crabby too.” Quietly, she said, “You mind if I ask . . . has Captain Meade ever beaten you?”

“No, Cap’n been good to me. He do talk mean sometimes, but I ’spect he have to, keep order and such. But he’s the best massah I ever have.” He leaned forward and whispered, “Cap’n even read his Bible. Showed it to me once, all beat up and worn.” He smiled. “Like me.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. “He reads the Bible, but still . . . he
owns
you?”

An odd expression came over Micah’s face, like he didn’t understand the question.

“Hey, Micah,” a voice boomed down from the hatch.

“Yessuh, Cap’n?”

“Smitty needs you, time to serve up chow for our guests.”

“Yessuh, be right there.”

Laura sat on the wooden steps connecting the main and forecastle decks and looked down at her bowl, half-filled with gray mush. She’d only eaten two spoonfuls and could hardly imagine downing a third. It put one in mind of oatmeal, less the cream and sugar, less the nutmeg, less the flavor. She’d heard someone call it gruel, which seemed entirely appropriate.

She forced another mouthful.

Dreadful.

Aboard the SS
Vandervere
there had been three distinct tiers of food and lodging: first class, second class, and steerage. Even in steerage the food appeared to be several classes above what the crew of the
Cutlass
ate.

The gruel did remind her of something pleasant: the most perfect oatmeal she’d ever tasted. But instead of dinner, it had been served at breakfast. What was it, two weeks before? She and John were aboard the SS
Sonora
, the
Vandervere
’s sister ship, which had taken them down the Pacific side of their journey. Every bite had overflowed with flavor.

They sat at this lovely round table, just the two of them. White linens, china bowls and cups, sterling silverware. The success of John’s hardware store had enabled them to travel first class, something she had never done. It was midmorning. They had slept in. The waters were perfectly calm as far as the eye could see.

“John, isn’t this moment amazing?” Laura said. “I have never been this happy. I didn’t know a joy so complete was even possible.”

He reached across the table and took her hand, sipping his coffee with the other. “I don’t have words to say. I thought long and hard about where to go on our honeymoon. Narrowed it down to a half-dozen choices. I wrestled the hardest with this one. But now . . .”

“It’s perfect, John. I love it.” She squeezed his hand.

“Laura.” He looked deep into her eyes when he said this. “For me, it’s not the ship or that incredible view out there. Or even this very fine bowl of oatmeal.” He smiled. “It is being here with you. Doing all this with you. Adding to our love, moments like last night, with you now as my wife. It’s . . . I have no words.”

She leaned forward and they kissed.

“See that man?” he whispered, pointing to a man standing alone against the rail looking out to sea. “That’s who I was, what I’d be doing on this ship right now without you.”

Just then someone began coughing loudly, jolting her from these pleasant thoughts. As she reentered the present, she saw it was a woman standing alone against the rail of the
Cutlass
, about the same distance as the man John had pointed to. Laura turned to her right, as if she might see John sitting across the table where he belonged.

Oh, John
.

She quickly ate another spoonful of gruel. It was revolting, but it had the power to force her thoughts elsewhere. She looked around at the other women and children on deck. Everyone with a bowl wore the same disinterested expression. She knew she needed nourishment, and only that knowledge kept her eating until it was gone.

When she finished, she got up and walked the bowl back toward the table they’d set up to dish it out. It was obvious there were far more mouths to feed than bowls available. A number of passengers stood in line; their faces suggested they’d heard the early reviews about the gruel. Laura saw Micah had been reassigned and was now cleaning the bowls being turned in. Instead of handing hers in, she joined him and began to clean them too. He smiled and stepped aside.

“Ma’am, that’s Micah’s job.”

She turned to face a gray-bearded man she assumed to be Smitty, the cook. “I’d like to help,” she said.

“Well, I don’t think the captain would approve.” He slopped down another bowlful of gruel. “You heard him. Y’all are guests.”

“We may be, Mr. Smitty. And we are very grateful to you, but how do you think we feel taking all your food and not even lifting a hand to help?”

Smitty’s eyebrows raised. “I . . . well, I suppose it’s okay then. But if the captain comes by, you will tell him you insisted?”

“I certainly will,” she said. “The quicker we get these bowls clean, the faster people can eat, right?”

“I suppose.”

No more was said. She continued helping Micah. A few minutes later, more ladies volunteered. In short order, everyone was fed, all the bowls and spoons cleaned, everything put away.

She decided to walk out to the bow and take in the sunset. It was hard not to acknowledge the wonder. Aboard the
Sonora
and
Vandervere
, almost every night, the Almighty had painted the most elaborate scenes across the sky, the brightest array of colors, each blending seamlessly into the other. Laura and John had never missed one, right up until the evening the storm had begun.

It amazed her, so many combinations of color, some she’d never imagined could share the same canvas. Then to see a mirror image of it all repainted on the face of the sea, especially on the Pacific side, where the sea had been calm every evening. Every ten minutes or so, the colors would shift and a new version would emerge, equally dazzling. She and John would stand there together, taking it in. Sometimes holding hands. When there was a breeze, he’d stand behind her and wrap his arms around her shoulders.

Tonight, it was as if the sky was on fire. Without a doubt, the most beautiful sunset thus far. How could the Lord, she wondered—
why
would the Lord—who could create such astounding images, why would he mar these same images by forcing her to view them alone?

She looked to her left. The rails along the western edge of the ship were lined with women, all captivated by the same humbling scene.

And like her, they too were alone.

Remembering.